Sons and Daughters (25 page)

Charlotte frowned but asked no more questions. ‘Let me know if there’s anything else we can do. Anything they need.’

‘We will, miss.’

‘I’ve a good mind not to go. And I certainly shouldn’t be letting you go. You’re not used to civilized company,’ Osbert grumbled as he and Charlotte climbed into the motor car that Miles Thornton had sent to fetch them on New Year’s Eve. ‘And where are your glasses? You should be wearing your glasses. You’re as blind as a bat without them.’

Charlotte said nothing. She’d known her father would not stay away from the dinner party – not when Philip was home from school. And he couldn’t leave her at the farm; Miles had been adamant that his invitation included her. As for the remark about her spectacles, she chose to ignore that.

Euphemia and Percy were already there when Charlotte and her father arrived.

‘Dear me,’ Euphemia murmured in her ear as she kissed Charlotte’s cheek. ‘I really must take you in hand, child. That dress is like something out of the ragbag.’

Far from being insulted, Charlotte felt an overwhelming desire to giggle. It was a perfect description for her shabby, purple dress. Euphemia was dressed in a lovely silk, low-waisted pale-blue dress and dainty high-heeled satin shoes.

‘Miss Charlotte, Miss Charlotte . . .’ Georgie was at her side, taking her hand and dragging her across the room. ‘Come and meet Uncle Felix. He’s a friend of Papa’s. They were in the war together. He’s an artist. He painted the portraits of Mama.’

‘I’d love to, Georgie dear, but first I must give Ben his birthday present.’

‘Ooh, what have you got for him? Ben – Ben, come here. Charlotte’s brought you a present.’

Shyly, Ben unwrapped the leather hunting whip with a staghorn handle and silver collar. ‘It’s wonderful,’ he stammered, taken aback by her generous gift. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re most welcome.’ Charlotte smiled. ‘I know
you
will use it properly.’

There was the merest accent on the word ‘you’, but Ben met her steady gaze and, understanding, nodded. ‘I will, Miss Charlotte, I promise you.’

Georgie was tugging at her hand. ‘
Now
come and meet Uncle Felix.’

The man held out his right hand, but Charlotte noticed, with a shock, that the sleeve of his left arm was empty and tucked into the pocket of his jacket.

‘Felix Kerr.’ The man smiled at her.

‘Charlotte Crawford,’ she murmured.

He was small and thin, but his bearing was upright, his back straight. He had a small, goatee beard, once brown but now liberally flecked with grey. His hair was thinning a little, but his dark eyes looked boldly into hers as if he would read her very soul.

With a jolt, Charlotte realized. ‘Felix Kerr. Not
the
Felix Kerr?’

The man laughed.

‘I’m so sorry.’ She blushed, feeling foolish. ‘You must get inane remarks like that all the time.’ Perhaps her father was right; she wasn’t used to polite society. She shouldn’t have come. She’d be embarrassing Miles and she’d no wish to do that. She tried desperately to repair the damage. ‘I’ve read about your work, but I’m sorry, I’ve never been able to see any of it – except, of course, the portraits of Mrs Thornton.’

But his eyes were twinkling with amusement. ‘Don’t apologize. Of course, the last portrait I did of dear Louisa – the one with her two children that we’ll see in a moment in the dining room – was done at the beginning of the war just before I volunteered.’ He sighed. ‘My style has changed a little since.’

‘Oh? Why?’ The direct question was out before she thought to stop it, and once more she found herself apologizing.

But Felix was happy to explain. ‘Not because of my injury. Luckily, I’m right-handed. It would have been devastating if I’d lost my right arm, I don’t mind admitting. But no, it’s because of what I went through – what all of us went through.’

Charlotte glanced across the room towards Miles. ‘Mr Thornton too? Was he wounded?’

‘Twice, I think, but fortunately not seriously, though the last injury ended the war early for him. I had to wait until the very last month of the war, would you believe, before I got myself a Blighty wound. Still, we should be grateful. We’re both still here. So many of our fellow soldiers aren’t.’

‘It was a dreadful time,’ Charlotte murmured. ‘The papers were full of casualty lists every day and almost every family had someone involved. And waiting for the dreaded telegram . . .’

‘I know. And then the influenza that swept the country at the end of ’eighteen. I lost my wife and child in that epidemic.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He shrugged and sighed. ‘I wasn’t the only one who’d lost loved ones. All those mothers and wives losing their men in the war. And Miles, too, losing poor Louisa in childbirth.’

‘What – what was she like?’

‘Louisa? A lady in the very best sense of the word. Beautiful, charming, but with a deliciously wicked sense of humour. I can see a lot of her in Georgie. He’s a charmer, isn’t he, but in a nice way?’

Charlotte laughed. ‘He most certainly is. He’s adorable.’

She saw Felix glance down at her left hand. ‘You’re not married, Charlotte?’ She was startled, but pleasantly surprised, at the use of her Christian name after such a short acquaintance, but perhaps, she thought, that’s how things were done in the artistic world. She felt a sudden pang of longing; not, for once, to be married, but to be part of the exciting world of artists.

‘No – no, I’m not.’ She was stuck now for a topic of conversation and suddenly felt her inadequacy in socializing. But, like the perfect host, Miles arrived at her shoulder. ‘I’m so glad you and Felix are getting to know one another. I’ve heard a whisper that you are an artist too, Miss Charlotte.’

Now Charlotte blushed. ‘No – oh no,’ she protested. ‘Please – I don’t deserve such a title.’

Miles chuckled. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard. You’re being modest.’

‘No, no, really I’m not. I love drawing and painting – that’s true. But I’ve no talent. It’s just a hobby.’ She glanced across at her father as she added, ‘A
secret
hobby.’

‘A secret?’ Felix was scandalized. ‘You should never keep a talent hidden, my dear. You should be proud of it.’ He linked his arm through hers as dinner was announced and the guests moved through to the dining room. ‘Now, I shall insist I see your work.
I
will tell you – truthfully – if you have any talent.’

Charlotte smiled, but said no more as Georgie appeared at her other side and took her hand. ‘You’re sitting by me, Miss Charlotte. I arranged all the places especially.’

‘I see you have an admirer, my dear,’ Felix whispered. ‘But I do hope I’m placed on your other side.’

Indeed he was, and by the end of the evening, Charlotte could not remember ever having enjoyed herself so much. She’d even managed to ignore her father’s glowering looks from the other end of the table. She’d been monopolized by Felix and Georgie, so there’d been only a brief exchange of words between herself and Cuthbert Iveson. And she had the feeling that he was avoiding being seen talking to her. Besides, at the dinner table it was Euphemia who held sway, regaling them all with tales from their days of living abroad. As for Osbert, his attention was taken up by Philip sitting opposite him.

Miles sat at the head of the table, surveying his guests and making sure they were looked after and entertained. He watched Charlotte and Felix talking and was fascinated by how the girl’s face came alive as she talked and listened to Felix. But she was attentive to Georgie, too, turning every so often to make sure he was not left out.

She’s a kindly soul, he thought, who deserves a better life than the one she’s got.

As the party broke up at about eleven, Felix squeezed her hand. ‘I don’t know when I last enjoyed myself so much.’

‘Nor me,’ Charlotte said with guileless honesty.

‘And you must let me see your work. I’m staying the weekend with Miles. Perhaps you could come over tomorrow and bring some of your drawings and paintings. I—’

‘What’s that?’ Her father was at her side. He had his hat and coat on and was carrying his walking stick.

‘I was just asking your daughter—’

‘Oh please,’ Charlotte whispered, suddenly frantic. ‘Don’t—’

‘You’re the artist fellow, aren’t you?’ Without waiting for a response, Osbert turned on Charlotte. ‘What have you been saying? Making a fool of yourself again, I don’t doubt.’

He grasped her arm and began to pull her towards the door. ‘Get yourself home. You’re a disgrace. I wish you’d never been born. I’d rather be childless than saddled with you.’

The other guests stood rooted to the spot, shocked to the core by the vicious words spilling from his mouth. Miles stepped forward, but Osbert was already pushing her down the steps and into the waiting motor car. Though Miles hurried after them, Osbert slammed the door and the vehicle moved off before he could reach it. He returned to his other guests, still standing where he’d left them.

Euphemia found her voice at last. ‘I see my dear brother hasn’t changed in all these years. That poor girl.’

It was a sentiment echoed by all of them, except one. Philip Thornton turned away with a smirk on his face.

When they arrived back at Buckthorn Farm, Osbert hustled her into the house through the door Edward was holding open.

‘Stay here,’ Osbert commanded. ‘Morgan – see that she does, else it’ll be the worse for you.’

White-faced, Charlotte watched her father mount the stairs.

‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’ Edward whispered urgently as soon as Osbert was out of earshot.

‘There was an artist there. Felix Kerr. And Miles – Mr Thornton’ – she had begun to think of him as ‘Miles’ in her head – ‘told him that – that I painted.’

‘Oh dear!’ Edward murmured.

‘Yes,’ Charlotte said flatly. ‘Oh dear.’

Osbert had reached the top of the stairs, had turned to the left and disappeared. They both heard the door of Charlotte’s room being flung open, crashing back against the wardrobe that stood behind it. Then the sound of crashing, things being swept off a table, pots and paints scattered and, finally, whilst Charlotte closed her eyes and cringed, the sound of tearing paper.

‘Come on, love.’ Edward put his arm about her shoulders. ‘Let’s go to the kitchen.’

Dumbly, she allowed him to lead her, stumbling, through the door and into the warm, comforting kitchen. She was shaking. Mary, knitting by the range, let her work fall to the floor as she got up. Her worried eyes went to her husband.

‘It’s him,’ Edward said shortly. ‘He’s upstairs in her room, destroying everything, by the sounds of it.’

‘Destroying?’

‘Her paintings. Just because some chap at the dinner party – an artist – took an interest.’

‘In her,’ Mary asked shrewdly, ‘or in her paintings?’

‘Both, I expect.’

‘Come on, lovey. Sit down. I’ll make us some cocoa. Edward can go up in a bit and see if the coast’s clear.’

Mary was pouring hot milk into a mug, when they all heard footsteps in the passage and the door was flung open. Osbert came in, brandishing his stick. Bravely, Edward leapt up and stood in front of Charlotte.

‘Out of my way, man. This is between me and my hussy of a –
daughter
.’ He spat out the last word with venom.

He raised his stick, but Edward stood firm. ‘You’ll not hit her again. Not ever, not whilst I’m in this house.’

‘Then you can pack your bags and go. The pair of you. You and your good-for-nothing wife.’

‘Gladly, but if we do,’ Edward said with surprising calm, ‘Miss Charlotte goes with us. We’ll not leave her here to your tender mercies,’ he added with sarcasm.

‘And where d’you think you’ll go, eh? The workhouse – the three of you.’

‘Mebbe that’d be preferable to staying here. Aye, I reckon it would, an’ all. But dun’t you forget,
sir
,’ Edward grabbed the stick and twisted it out of Osbert’s hand, ‘that me an’ my missis know a few secrets, now, don’t we? We’ve only stayed here all these years and kept silent for
her
sake. Not yourn. Never yourn.’

‘You wouldn’t.’ Osbert’s voice was a whisper now – a menacing, terrifying whisper. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’

‘Oh we would. Believe me, we would. Because she’s old enough now to know the truth. And now that Miss Charlotte’s aunt has come back, well, she’s someone of her own flesh and blood to turn to, hasn’t she?’

‘My sister will keep her nose out of my affairs, if she knows what’s good for her.’

‘I doubt you have any hold over her now – that is, if you ever had.’

‘Oh, I had. I still have, because I doubt she’s ever told that milksop of a husband of hers the truth about herself. She was a whore, that’s what my dear sister was. Still is, by the look of the way she dresses. I won’t have her corrupting
her
.’ He stabbed his finger towards Charlotte. Irrationally, at such a moment of drama, Charlotte realized that she couldn’t remember when her father had ever called her by her name. She had always been ‘girl’, ‘her’, ‘she’ or even, on occasions, ‘it’.